A Nice and Accurate Nativity Story
by CatalynMJ1015
Summary: In which Aziraphale and Crowley accidentally deliver a future messiah. And that's not to say that they hand him over... They *deliver*, deliver him.
1. Seeking Heavenly Peace

**1\. Seeking Heavenly Peace**

_December, 2019 CE (Soho, London)_

Life changed after the Apocalypse That Wasn't. Aziraphale and Crowley both kept miracles to a minimum, hoping to escape attention from their former employers. Aziraphale still performed good deeds here and there; but only small, non-miraculous ones. It was a hobby- or perhaps just a habit. Crowley seemed to take a similar approach to the pranks and annoyances that he called "evil."

With more spare time on their hands, both angel and demon turned their attention to the bookshop. The cutback on miracles meant no more conjuring up funds at will. So, it seemed prudent to try and make A.Z. Fell & Co. a full-time, truly profitable business.

With the help of Marie Kondo- a delightful woman whom Crowley had found on the "Net Flicks"- Aziraphale sorted his inventory into three broad categories. Books "for casual shoppers" were kept up front. "Highly valuable" were cloistered in the back, while the "not for sale" were painstakingly whittled down until they fit into their living quarters upstairs.

Which brings us to the biggest change since the world didn't end: Crowley had sold his Mayfair flat, and moved in with Aziraphale.

There were plenty of good reasons for this. It saved money; after all, they say two can live as cheaply as one. It allowed Crowley and Aziraphale to keep better tabs on each other: no more telephone calls with coded rendezvous points. And it was a safety measure, now that they were truly "on their own side," unsure when either heaven or hell might regroup to attack them both.

But the _best_ reasons for living together went deeper. Crowley's flat had always felt cold and lonely. Even in the cozy bookshop, Aziraphale had sometimes been lonely, too. They would have moved in together centuries ago, had they not been afraid of the consequences from their "sides." But now that they knew retaliation was coming eventually, it would be foolish to waste whatever time they had left. They had nothing left to lose but each other.

(The good reasons for living together were oft-quoted, while the best reasons for living together went largely unsaid. Because whenever they _did _come up, Aziraphale blushed and avoided eye contact, and Crowley began stammering non-sequiturs between "ngk" noises.)

Crowley had gradually started making changes to Aziraphale's space. For the most part, the changes were small- and not unwelcome. There were now hanging ferns and potted herbs in the windows, and vines curling around the banister. The bookshop had a new computer for the first time in thirty years. Crowley had introduced Aziraphale to the contemporary human ingenuities of wine fridges, weighted blankets, and Spotify.

Then December came.

Apparently, Crowley loved to celebrate Christmas. Aziraphale was nonplussed by this at first. Christmas was, after all, a _holy day. _But there was nothing 'holy' in Crowley's revelry. Christmas was merely a vehicle for him to glory in all things tacky.

He lined the shop's front windows with oversized, multicolor, blinking string lights. He snuck motion-sensing toy elves into the book displays, where they jittered and cackled every time someone walked by. He staffed the bookshop till whilst wearing felt reindeer antlers.

On colder days, Crowley donned garish jumpers with big, clashing holiday patterns. Some even had blinking lights attached. When customers called them "ugly jumpers," the demon grinned and thanked them. Aziraphale felt as if he was missing out on some sort of joke. But it was worse on warmer days. That's when Crowley broke out the screen-printed long-sleeve t-shirts, blaring phrases such as, "SON OF A NUTCRACKER," "YOU'LL SHOOT YOUR EYE OUT," or "OFFICIAL MEMBER OF THE JELLY OF THE MONTH CLUB."

But nothing irritated Aziraphale more than that dratted playlist.

Crowley had used Spotify to curate a collection of the least tasteful Christmas songs in the English-speaking world. "Santa Baby." "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer." "Chiron Beta Prime." "The Chipmunk Song (Christmas Don't Be Late)." And even- this one surprised Aziraphale a bit- "Percy the Puny Poinsettia."

Aziraphale knew that if he only asked, Crowley would switch the music off. But he held back. He did love seeing Crowley express himself in what was now 'their' space. And to be fair, Crowley confined his crimes against music to the bookshop, during business hours. Customers loved it; they were leaving glowing reviews on a website called "Yelp."

Nevertheless, when "Dominick the Donkey" came on the speakers behind the till for the umpteenth time, Aziraphale suddenly, desperately needed to take the air.

It was just before afternoon tea- and the early winter sunset. The sky above was a flat, dark slate. But at ground level in Soho, it was bright as a midsummer's day. Icicle lights crisscrossed the narrow streets about twenty feet overhead. Every shop and restaurant- regardless of class, creed, or clientele- had festive lights decking its façade.

Commuters and shoppers mingled in a tight shuffle, kicking dirty slush from last week's snowfall underfoot. They made more eye contact than usual. Some even smiled as they sidled past each other, saying "cheers, mate," or "happy holidays" to complete strangers.

It warmed an angel's heart. But it didn't bring Aziraphale the peace and calm that he craved.

He made his way to St. Anne's Churchyard, where the view overhead cleared, and one could find a little breathing room. A gaggle of carolers were singing "O Holy Night."

_Fall on your knees!_

_O hear the angel voices!..._

In years past, Aziraphale would have joined them in a heartbeat. Today he paused, only for the smallest moment, before journeying on.

He'd been skipping certain songs in his own Christmas collection recently. "Angels We Have Heard on High," "Hark the Herald Angels Sing," "Angels from the Realms of Glory." They brought up difficult questions. Painful memories. Things that Aziraphale couldn't make sense of just yet. Crowley kept telling him that he didn't _have _to try and make sense of it. Not until he was good and ready.

"They're not here, angel. They won't come anymore. I won't let them."

He'd sit with Aziraphale, gently rubbing his back, for as long as it took to calm him down. When the angel's musings turned morbid over a fourth glass of wine. When a stranger's passing scoff sparked a memory of unsmiling purple eyes, and he suddenly found himself wringing his hands and staring at the floor. Or when he woke up in a cold sweat, clawing down into the blankets- down and away from an unseen, blue-white light.

"They don't matter anymore," Crowley told him. "You don't even have to _think _about them."

While Aziraphale's mind wandered, his feet carried him steadily westward. Past their favorite Mexican place; the posh trattoria; that delightful new Thai place they discovered last month. Before he knew it, he found himself at the edge of Golden Square.

A solitary busker played "Silent Night." He also sang, in Welsh:

_Tawel nos, dros y byd_

_Sanctaidd nos, gylch y crud…_

Aziraphale dropped a five-pound note in the guitar case. He was fairly certain the busker smiled and nodded at him. (Although he wasn't quite ready to look another being in the face, after the thoughts that had crept up on him at St. Anne's.) He stood and listened, while looking off across the street. There was a holiday light display in Golden Square. Oversized. Multicolor. Blinking. Like Crowley's window lights.

The busker finished the first verse in Welsh, then switched to French:

_Douce nuit, sainte nuit,_

_Dans les cieux, l'astre luit…_

And next, the original German:

_Stille nacht, heilige nacht_

_Alles schläft, einsam wacht…_

"Oh bravo," Aziraphale breathed.

_This _was what he had been looking for. A song so universal, so soothing, that it could bring a temporary ceasefire to one of humanity's worst wars. Heaven wished they could take credit for a song like this. But the tune, the original poem, and the translations into over a hundred languages were all humanity's doing.

Although, Aziraphale did help popularize the English version back in the 1860s. He'd always been a fan of "Silent Night." He didn't even care that the song was wildly inaccurate to the events it claimed to describe.

It had happened at night; the poets got that right, at least. But Aziraphale remembered the night, two thousand and twenty-three years ago. (And some-odd months, as Jesus of Nazareth wasn't born anywhere near December.) It certainly wasn't calm, or bright. There was a dust storm. The adjacent tavern was bursting with disgruntled patrons. And the infant Jesus had quite a lusty little cry. If he'd 'slept in heavenly peace', it must have been sometime after Aziraphale and Crowley's hasty departure.

He wondered what the poets and preachers would have thought, if they could have seen the real scene in that cramped stable. A flustered angel. A steady-handed demon. A birth with enough complications to make a modern-day hospital midwife go a bit pale before paging a doctor. It was a miracle both mother and baby survived. Well- it was several miracles, actually.

It was also the very first time that Aziraphale and Crowley had worked together.

Like all the best stories, it started in a bar.


	2. Caledonia

**2\. Caledonia**

_Springtime, 4 BCE (Outskirts of Bethlehem, Judea)_

Aziraphale hated choir practice.

Or rather: he hated _celestial _choir practice. He'd joined more than a few human singing groups over the past four thousand years; their practices could be quite fun. It was the challenge of it all. Humans were imperfect singers, but they'd devised all sorts of strategies for helping each other memorize lyrics and refine their pitches. And when everything finally came together- oh! It was exceedingly satisfying. Especially since Aziraphale, too, was singing within the limitations of a human voice.

To do otherwise was to risk his choir-mates dying of shock.

Angels' true voices are massive; a _pianissimo _solo in the middle of St. Peter's Basilica could rattle the stained-glass windows. Their singing is never sharp, flat, or out of tempo. At celestial choir practice, there's no ribbing the singer next to you when someone flubs a line. There's no flubbing _anything. _Along with perfect harmonies in perfect time, even the lyrics are pre-programmed into the voice itself. All one really has to do is show up and open one's mouth.

For the vast majority of humans who've never heard an angelic choir: Imagine a music box. One that never runs down, and produces song loud enough to shake the rafters ten miles away. Or imagine an automated announcement over a PA system. Only somewhat prettier- and incomprehensibly louder.

The silver lining to practice with a choir incapable of errors? It's all over very quickly. The legions of heaven did one run-through of _"Glory to God in the highest, and peace on Earth," _and then they were dismissed for a few hours. They were ordered to regroup above the pasture just before second watch. Gabriel would apparently deliver a short message to the shepherds, and then the choir would sing again. Only this time with the "mute to Earthly creatures" switch flipped off.

Everyone loves free time on a field trip- including angels. Many flew eight miles north to Jerusalem, to visit the temple. Aziraphale headed south on foot. They'd all been warned that the nearby town of Bethlehem was off-limits tonight. But Aziraphale wasn't going as far as the town proper. Only to the nearest place serving food.

The humble roadside tavern was stuffed to the gills. Aziraphale knew exactly why. Caesar Augustus had called for another census. Farmers from the surrounding countryside were forced to come to Bethlehem to be tallied. After a long and dusty day of hiking into town, standing in long queues, and arguing with bean-counters in broken Greek, they were stopping on the way home for a warm meal and a jug of cheer. Might as well make the trip just a _little _worthwhile.

Aziraphale made his way to the counter, where he ordered some falafel wrapped in pita and a small jug of the local wine. A simple, light meal: yet it took an age for his number to come up. Still, he smiled warmly at the flustered, pink-cheeked lad who handed his order over the counter. It wasn't the boy's fault they were drowning in the rush.

He turned to search for a place to sit. Over by the front door, a long, black-sleeved arm rose above the crowds, beckoning.

"Aziraphale! Care to join me?"

The demon Crawly. Why was Aziraphale not surprised? He rolled his eyes before making his way over.

As usual, Crawly was dressed in black from head to toe. Even his leather sandals were dyed black. His cloak was fine linen, with serpentine swirls of red embroidery at the hems. He could have worn a turban, like Aziraphale; both entities were dressed as prosperous men. But instead, the demon had his long, wavy, auburn hair on full display, pulled back with a simple leather cord.

(Aziraphale had long suspected that Crawly's hair was a point of sinful vanity; a means for tempting humans into lust; or, quite possibly, both.)

Crawly had a spare chair at his table- and an empty wine jug. He gestured for Aziraphale to take the former, and pour some of his wine into the latter. Aziraphale obliged on both counts.

"Crawly. Wh- what are you doing here?"

Aziraphale fidgeted nervously. Crawly didn't _know, _did he? About the messiah being born tonight? Was he hell-sent, here on a kidnapping mission? It seemed exactly like the sort of thing hell would do- but not the sort of thing that Crawly would do. Aziraphale had always thought he was quite fond of human children…

"Just passing through on my way to Azotus," Crawly replied mildly.

"Oh? Taking a sea voyage?"

"Mm. Yeah. Head office wants me to scout out a new base of operations. In Caledonia, _ugh._"

He pulled a face before taking a swig of wine. Playing the part of the put-upon peon. Aziraphale had seen Crawly do this dozens of times. Sometimes, when the wine flowed and Aziraphale let his guard down, he'd commiserate by sharing his own petty grumblings against heaven. He always felt foolish afterwards; surely he was playing right into the demon's hands…

"Ah, yes. …Wh-where exactly is Caledonia, again?" Aziraphale asked.

"Well that's just it. I mean. Where the heaven _is _Caledonia? At the end of the bloody known world, that's where it is!"

Aziraphale eyed Crawly's wine jug, wondering how strong the first batch had been. Crawly rambled on, complete with wild gestures.

"North of Britannia! For Satan's sake, I didn't think Brittania even _had_ a 'north of!' The locals are giving the Romans a run for their money, so that'll be fun. But still! I'll freeze my scales off," he moped.

"You don't really have scales, do you?" Aziraphale lowered his voice. "I mean- in your present form?"

The demon cocked an eyebrow at him. "Wouldn't you like to know."

Aziraphale eyed Crawly's wine jug again. This time he wondered if there had been more than one prior batch.

"Only good thing is, it'll be decades before they transfer me out of Judea. Too much going on around here these days," Crawly mused. (Aziraphale nearly choked on his falafel.) "So. What about you?"

Aziraphale dabbed at his mouth with trembling hands. "Wh- what? What do you mean, what about me?"

"I _mean, _what've you been up to? Another field trip to the temple?" Crawly teased.

"Erm, yes. I mean- no, not really. Just passing through. Running errands. N- nothing big. Business as usual, you know."

The demon smirked faintly. "Right."

The tavern hostess shoved her way to the front door, where she hung a sign announcing NO VACANCIES in Greek and Aramaic. Just then, an argument broke out upstairs between overnight guests vying for space. Crawly and Aziraphale stopped to listen through the ceiling.

"Not business as usual for them," Crawly remarked. "Poor fools. Did you hear that Caesar Augustus is making everyone report in the town where they were last registered? No more turning up just anywhere and updating your place of residence on the spot."

Aziraphale nodded solemnly. "I did hear about that. Of course, those least equipped to travel are the ones most affected by the new policy."

"Tenant farmers and day laborers traipsing every which way across Judea, Galilee, Samaria…"

"Yes. You must be very proud," Aziraphale said wryly.

Crawly's golden eyes widened. "What, you think _my_ lot had something to do with this? No, angel. This is all down to human greed. Greed and petty tyranny."

"Here, here!" A man at the next table raised his mug.

Aziraphale wondered fleetingly if _this _was Crawly's evil plan. Incite a riot. Simply enhance the existing chaos and danger already swirling in the new messiah's city of birth. It was certainly more Crawly's style…

But Crawly glared at the man, who meekly returned to his meal. Aziraphale turned his full attention to his falafel. Crawly nursed the wine jug and squinted outside. A dusty front was coming in from the east, turning the sunset an eerie, glowing ochre. Aziraphale hoped that, wherever the new messiah's parents were bedding down for the night, they were safe.

"Help!" cried a man outside with a Galilean accent. "Please, let us in!"

A young couple staggered up to the tavern door. They were traveling alone, without so much as a pack mule; they carried their provisions in rucksacks. The woman was heavily pregnant. Though judging by the panic in her husband's voice, and the way she whimpered and clutched her stomach, she wouldn't be for long.

"We've just come from Bethlehem," said the man. "We've had a long journey-"

"Yeah, you and everyone else!" a patron hollered. This seemed to incite all the other hecklers in the tavern:

"No vacancies, you moron!"

"Can't you read the bloody sign?"

"'Course he can't! Galilean hick!"

"But my wife is in labor!" the man protested.

"How nice for her! Now move along!"

The woman- or rather the girl, as she looked to be about fifteen- wailed and doubled over. "_Joseph!_"

"It's alright, Mary…"

Aziraphale forgot to breathe. Could it be? This scraggly young couple… This wasn't _them, _was it?

He'd read the celestial memo on tonight's events. Memorized it, even. A new messiah would be born tonight in Bethlehem. One that was heaven-endorsed: a good one, an _important _one. His mother would be Mary, a virgin of good character. Her husband: Joseph. Their home: Nazareth, a tiny village in Galilee.

What were they doing in a cheap roadside tavern? With no help in sight? And the demon beside Aziraphale miracling himself sober and rising from his chair?

Or rather: from _her _chair.

Crawly swept past Aziraphale in a black headscarf and _abaya. _The demon reached out to young Mary. "It's alright, dear," she coaxed in a soft alto voice. "Up you go. Let's get you somewhere comfortable, yeah? Lean on me. Thaaat's it."

Crawly walked backwards into the tavern, with Mary leaning into her arms. No one stopped them. The hostess bustled up, concern etched on her blunt face.

"Is she alright?" she asked Joseph. "I'd give her my own bed, only I already gave it up for a man who might be dying. I'm so sorry…"

Aziraphale would have silently blessed the barwoman, her family and business. If he wasn't so preoccupied with a growing sense of horror. The Almighty Herself had commanded even the angels to steer clear of this event- and now a demon had charmed her way in! The next great prophet would soon be born- one great enough to have his very birth heralded by heavenly choirs. And his laboring mother was grasping for support from a _demon…_

"Is there anywhere I can take her?" Crawly asked the barwoman. "She's very close."

"How close?"

"Nearest private, horizontal space available, if you don't mind," Crawly snapped.

"Well. I mean, there's-" the barwoman winced. "There's the stables, out back."

A few of the worst and drunkest patrons whooped and cackled, making animal noises and derogatory comments about Galileans. Everyone else stared in silence. No one noticed as Aziraphale, too, changed form and dress in the blink of an eye.

"Are you a midwife, then?" the barwoman asked Crawly.

"Well I've… done this before, once or twice."

"And so have I!" squeaked Aziraphale in her new voice as she bolted to her feet.

Crawly grinned at her from across the room. The angel could have sworn that the demon knew she was lying.


	3. Judith and Shiphrah

**3\. Judith and Shiphrah**

Their hostess led the way through the tavern and out back. They had to stop for Mary's next contraction before they even reached the stable. Aziraphale knew nothing about delivering human babies. But even she knew that Crawly was right: Mary didn't have long.

Crawly, for her part, had managed to pinch a couple of blankets from unwitting patrons on their way past. At the stable door, she turned to the barwoman and ordered, "We need clean, sharp scissors; a span of twine; a basin of boiled water; some salt; and swaddling cloth, if you've got any."

"Yes, madam," said the barwoman, bowing slightly before rushing off. Crawly spoke Aramaic with a posh Hellenic accent, and her _abaya_ was as refined as his tunic had been moments before. If anything, she commanded even more respect as a woman. Her great height and intense gaze were more striking in her current gender.

Mary reached out- not for Joseph's hand, but for Crawly's. "Don't leave me," she whimpered.

"We won't," Aziraphale blurted.

Mary looked to her in confusion; Crawly, in amusement.

"Erm." The angel fidgeted. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm- ah- Judith. And this is my colleague…"

Crawly arched an eyebrow. _Go on, angel. I want to hear this._

"…Shiphrah."

Crawly snorted with laughter. Mary was too preoccupied with the next contraction to notice.

"Right, _Judith. _You clear a space for the blankets. Then we'll help Mary down," said Crawly.

She put an arm around Mary's shoulders and led her into the stable. Aziraphale followed close behind. Joseph stood in the doorway, wringing his hands.

"What should I do?" he asked.

"What all fathers do: wait outside and stay out of our way," Crawly ordered. To Mary, she chuckled, "He's done enough already, hasn't he?"

"What do you mean?"

Crawly and Aziraphale exchanged a look behind Mary's back. _Too damn young, _the demon mouthed, shaking her head sadly. Aziraphale was perplexed. Did Crawly not know that Mary was a virgin? And if so, was it possible that she didn't know about _any_ of the special circumstances surrounding this birth?

But then why was she doing this?

Like the tavern and the inn above it, the stables were at full capacity. Aziraphale miracled away the muck. She placed a second miracle on the animals to keep them from making anything else- not muck, not mischief, not even noise. There was quite a bit of hay left over from the winter. It was unusually- some might say miraculously- soft and sweet-smelling. Aziraphale spread a thick layer of it in the clearing in the middle of the stable, then laid down the largest of the blankets Crawly had stolen.

The angel stood on Mary's one side, the demon on the other. Together, they helped her to lie down on the blanket.

"This is the nicest place I've laid my head since we left home," Mary sighed.

"We do our best," Aziraphale smiled. Mary reached out for her hand. Meanwhile, Crawly miracled up a basin to wash her hands, then slunk off to kneel between Mary's feet.

"Mary, I'm going to check and see how close you are. You'll feel my hands inside you. Are you ready?" Crawly asked. Mary nodded. "Right. Here we go."

She slipped her arms up Mary's long skirt. Aziraphale saw the demon's mouth fall open.

"Shiphrah?" the angel asked tentatively. "How are… things?"

"Nine fingers already," Crawly marveled. "How'd you even walk in here, kid?"

"Pains started in the census queue," Mary said over tight, shallow breaths. "Didn't want Joseph worrying… If we left, we'd just have to… come back ag- _aaah!"_

Her entire body arched with pain. She squeezed Aziraphale's plump hand clear down to the bones. Crawly disappeared from view, ducking between Mary's legs. With her free hand, Aziraphale dabbed a cloth at Mary's brow. She smiled down on the girl, radiating a gentle, otherworldly peace.

When the contraction passed, Mary started to cry. Both midwives praised her on a job well done- but that only made her weep harder.

"I want my mother," she moaned.

"Oh, you poor dear," Aziraphale breathed. "Is she back home? In Nazareth?"

Mary nodded. "She'll be laying out the sleeping mats on the roof. No dust storms up there. Warm nights under the stars. All my brothers and sisters telling stories…"

"You've got brothers and sisters?" Crawly asked conversationally.

"Mama's had nine babies. All born living."

"That's good!" the demon crowed. "You come from hardy stock."

The barwoman arrived with the supplies; she left them all at Crawly's side. The two 'midwives' were clearly established in their roles. The lanky redhead was actually delivering the baby, while the buxom blonde comforted the mother. Perhaps Aziraphale should have tried to switch places. After all, it was the baby that heaven had their eye on. But right now, she was just glad that there was someone remotely competent down there.

They made it through the next few contractions with no mishaps. Crawly coached Aziraphale on coaching Mary on how to breathe. The poor girl kept trying to stifle herself.

"Don't bite your lip, dear," said Aziraphale. "You'll make it bleed. Better to just let it out."

"More yelling means more breathing," Crawly agreed, crouching down to examine Mary again.

"I don't want to disturb the guests," Mary huffed.

"Why not? Don't see any of _them _pushing out a-"

The demon stopped mid-sentence.

Aziraphale frowned. "Cr- er, Shiphrah?"

Crawly looked up. Aziraphale couldn't see the whites of her eyes; the gold irises had overtaken them. Her pupils had narrowed to slits.

"Baby's breech," she said.

"Breached what?" Aziraphale asked.

"_No, _it's- ngk. Look. Babies are supposed to come out head-first," Crawly explained- ostensibly to Mary. "But I'm afraid, my dear, that this one's coming feet-first."

"Is that bad?" Aziraphale whispered, hoping Mary wouldn't overhear.

But she did overhear. "It is bad!" she wailed. "My sister Rachel was breech. The midwife pulled Mama's legs high up in the air… and then… I- I can't…"

"I'm sure it won't come to that, Mary. I'll just have Judith here go back inside and fetch a chair-"

"Oh, no need," Aziraphale smiled.

A cedar chair with a white seat cushion had appeared beside Crawly. It was solidly built, and large enough that they could position Mary however they needed. Or, as Crawly soon instructed, they could have Mary perch on the edge of the seat, with Az- ngk, _Judith- _sitting behind her for support.

They must have been quite a sight: Aziraphale and Crawly with their fine linen sleeves rolled up, Mary with half her homespun garments on the ground. All three women had shed their headscarves long ago. Aziraphale brushed Mary's sweat-slicked, black hair from her face, while the angel's own white-blond curls fell in her eyes. Mary sat between Aziraphale's splayed legs, clutching at the sides of the chair with white knuckles. Meanwhile Crawly crouched between Mary's legs. One false move and the girl could fall right on top of her.

A man from the tavern chose precisely that moment to start pounding on the stable door.

"How long's it gonna be, ladies? I need my ass!"

Crawly hissed. "You _are _an-"

Aziraphale snapped her fingers, and the man's donkey was instantly transported outside. The animal was unbridled, and had just been rudely awakened from a dream about all the things it liked best. Judging by the braying and cursing that ensued, it would be awhile before anyone else dared to come knocking.

"Mary," Crawly said steadily. "I need you to stay very still, and _don't push. _Do you understand?"

Mary gulped. "Y-yes."

The girl leaned back into Aziraphale. "That's it, dear," the angel cooed.

"Keep her still, Judith, and have her pant. Now, Mary. I'm going to reach in, hook my fingers around baby's legs, and pull them out one at a time," Crawly said. "This _will _hurt, but you cannot move. Ready? Alright. One. Two. Three."

Mary stopped panting and whined through gritted teeth. But true to her word, she didn't budge an inch.

"Done," Crawly said.

"Can I _move_ yet?" Mary cried.

But neither Crawly nor Aziraphale answered. Like dogs before an earthquake, they cocked their heads, sensing something that the humans around them could not. The instant that even part of Mary's child entered the world, the air had begun to change.

And it wasn't the coming dust storm.

A blinding light shone from above. A tremendous celestial pressure bore down on them, like a forty-mile-an-hour downdraft. The Almighty was watching. It made Aziraphale quite uncomfortable. But Crawly fared far worse. The demon fell to the earthen floor, teeth bared, nostrils flared, face pale and hollow, eyes wide and unseeing.

Mary couldn't see the light or feel the wind; but she did see her midwife collapse at her feet. "Shiphrah!" she gasped.

A voice that Mary couldn't hear boomed,

**AZIRAPHALE, GUARDIAN OF THE EASTERN GATE.**

**CRAWLY, SERPENT OF THE GARDEN.**

**JUST WHAT DO YOU TWO THINK YOU'RE DOING HERE?**

Mary dug her fingernails into Aziraphale's hands. "Judith!" she panted frantically. "Judith, what's wrong with Shiphrah? What do we do?"

Aziraphale grimaced. _Forgive me, Lord._

She unfurled her wings- and her willpower- to form a shelter over Mary and Crawly. Crawly came round almost immediately. Thank… someone.

"Turn th'baby," she slurred, possibly to herself. She blinked, pulled herself up, and splashed her hands clean again. "S'gonna hurt again, Mary, sorry."

Mary and Aziraphale panted together as they braced against two different, excruciating pressures.

"_There!" _Crawly grunted. "I've got him in position!"

"It's a boy?" Mary beamed. "Oh, I knew it!"

"Yes, he is. Now push!"

Slight, shaking and sweating, young Mary pushed with all her strength.

The child was born.

* * *

**A/N: **According to behindthename, "Judith" means "woman of the tribe of Judah." So Aziraphale's own alias is pretty basic. The name she gives Crawly, however, is a bit more creative. In the book of Exodus, Shiphrah was one of the midwives who disobeyed Pharaoh's orders to kill the male Hebrew babies. (Exodus 1:15-21.)

Also, according to behindthename, "Shiphrah" means "beautiful."


	4. When Babies Cry and Feathers Fly

**4\. When Babies Cry and Feathers Fly**

All was calm.

Well. Relatively speaking.

The baby was squalling his healthy little lungs out. Joseph was at the stable door, begging to be let in. The animals were waking up. The dust storm was rolling in from the east. Aziraphale and Crawly were about as breathless and shaky as Mary. The two entities kept exchanging wild-eyed, questioning looks.

But God was off their case, at least for the moment. Which was nice.

Crawly hurriedly cut the cord, cleaned and swaddled the baby, then placed him in Mary's outstretched arms.

"Jesus," Mary smiled down at him. She spoke the achingly common name with uncommon reverence. "He told me to call you Jesus."

"Who did? Your husband?" asked Crawly.

"Obviously," Aziraphale laughed nervously. "I- I mean. Who else would she be talking about?"

The corner of Crawly's lip hitched weakly. "Right. Can you take the baby for a minute, Judith? We've still got work to do."

While Crawly helped Mary back down to the floor, Aziraphale held the child. She was nervous: humans were always prattling on about how fragile newborns were. All this business about 'supporting the head.' The angel was also… well, a tad disappointed. Jesus ben-Joseph of Nazareth was such a _normal _baby. Red and wrinkly, scrawny-limbed, eyes screwed shut. There was nothing celestial- or even regal- about this squalling newborn of hearty peasant stock.

As soon as she was settled, sitting half-upright against a pile of blankets, Mary reached for her son again. Crawly nodded curtly. "Give him to her, Judith. Try nursing him, Mary. It'll speed up the afterbirth."

Crawly's hands shook as she went about her work. Aziraphale hovered over her. "Are you alright?" she whispered.

"I'm _fine_, angel."

"You're rushing things."

"Yes, I am." She looked up at Aziraphale, her gaze steady, piercing- almost accusing. "In case there's a storm."

Aziraphale knew she wasn't talking about the dust.

"Now make yourself useful. Soak a blanket in water, then wring it til it's damp all over."

"What for?" Aziraphale asked.

"If the _khamsin _hits, we'll put the baby in that trough over there, and pull the blanket tight over top so that he'll have clean air."

Oh. So she actually was talking about the dust. But perhaps not _only _the dust.

Aziraphale did as she was told. She looked away when Mary grunted deeply, shortly followed by a wet, sliding _plop._

"Afterbirth's intact," Crawly reported. "Well done, Mary."

Aziraphale turned around again. She found Mary bouncing Jesus in her arms with the expertise of an elder sister. "I knew it'd be alright," Mary smiled. "The angel told me, 'don't be afraid.'"

Crawly gave Aziraphale a 'good job' sort of nod. Aziraphale squirmed guiltily.

"Shall we, erm, get a wiggle on, then?"

Crawly shrugged. "Yeah, sure. Let's just get the father-"

"No wait!" said Mary. "Shiphrah. You should hold him again. Be… before you go."

"Oh I don't think she-"

"Listen, it's been fun, but-"

"P-please," Mary shivered. "Y-you've…"

Aziraphale wrapped a blanket over Mary's shoulders, but she only shook harder. Her eyes drooped, as each word came slower and softer than the last.

"d-done… so… much…"

Jesus wailed as his mother's arms went slack. Aziraphale scooped him up again. Crawly staggered upright. The skirt of her _abaya _gleamed crimson; it was covered in fresh blood.

"Oh, _fuck!"_

"Do something!" Aziraphale hissed.

"I can't. Give me the baby, angel."

"What? No! I've got him. You heal Mary."

"I _can't!_" the demon snarled. "Don't you get it? Midwives can't heal this. And thanks to your boss popping in, _I'm_ too depleted for a miracle! It's up to you. Now _give me the baby_."

Joseph pounded on the door. "What's happening?" he cried. "Mary!"

Aziraphale swallowed hard, then relinquished the infant messiah to the demon. She knelt and placed her hands on Mary's stomach. She could sense the wound deep within her. A mere thought from Aziraphale would heal it completely.

She hesitated.

What if it was part of the Ineffable Plan that this child grow up motherless? Perhaps he would be sent to a monastery for his upbringing. Surely that would be more conducive to his future messianic duties than being raised in a rowdy brood of Galilean peasants? After all, the Almighty had arranged for the prophet Samuel to be raised by a priest.

But Samuel's mother Hannah didn't have to die for that to happen…

Aziraphale listened. She heard Joseph threatening to kick down the stable door. She heard the whistling of dust-laden winds. She heard Jesus wailing in Crawly's arms. But she neither heard nor felt the Almighty.

She decided to take the silence as tacit approval. She closed her eyes, and let healing light flow out of her hands and into Mary's body.

Joseph and Mary would argue for years over what exactly happened next.

Joseph remembered shoving open the stable door- then struggling in vain to close it again, as a fierce _khamsin _wind pinned it against the wall. A genteel hand- pudgy, uncalloused, and robed in white- yanked him into the stable with surprising strength. All was swirling dust and hay, looming shadows, braying animals, newborn cries.

When the chaos died down, Joseph found that he and Mary were sitting by the feeding trough with damp cloths over their mouths. The baby was wailing in the trough, with an entire damp blanket stretched inches above him.

Mary remembered feeling very ill and cold, and falling backwards into darkness. When she opened her eyes, she saw a strange being standing over her, dressed in black and holding Jesus in her arms. She had amber eyes with slit pupils. Like a cat- or a snake. She also had enormous black wings.

_A demon, _Mary thought.

But she held the baby safe and sure. She looked down on Mary with compassion wrought across her slender face. Then she wrapped her wings around all three of them, shielding them from the storm.

"Come," she told Mary. She led her to where Joseph was, placed the baby at his mother's breast, then vanished.

The couple could agree on two things afterwards. Firstly: It was a bit rude of those midwives to run out so quickly, even if they were clearly too high-class for a place like this.

And secondly: For a stable with no birds in it, there sure were an awful lot of black and white feathers flying around.

* * *

Aziraphale miracled them both to a villa he rented in the hills above Hebron. He changed back into his male clothes and form. The angel had a rather particular comfort zone, and bosoms tended to bounce their way right out that zone. Crawly changed into clean clothes as well, but remained a woman.

"Nice to switch things up every now and again," she mused.

Aziraphale invited Crawly to stay awhile. "Well- just- until you gather your strength," he stammered.

It was an unprecedented move. For once, Aziraphale didn't have to worry about heaven finding out. All the other angels were far too busy right now. And if the Almighty set out to punish the two of them, it really wouldn't matter if She found them separately or together.

So why was he still so nervous?

Crawly agreed to stay awhile. They went out to the balcony together. The _khamsin_ winds had blown over, leaving a clear and mild night in their wake. A light, warm breeze teased at summer. The stars came out. The demon draped herself across a chaise, a glass of palm wine in hand.

Then the choir sang.

A valley in the distance filled with white light. The air shimmered with holy vibrations. Crawly set down her wine and sat up on the chaise in one graceful, spring-coiled move. Two thousand twenty-three years, (and some-odd months,) later, Aziraphale could still picture Crawly's face in that moment. Wide eyes. Low, knotted brow. Flared nostrils. Squared jaw. Collarbones rising as she inhaled sharply, then held it there.

"Angel," she said tightly. "Mind telling me what all this is about?"

Aziraphale looked down at his hands. "Better not," he said. "I'll be in enough trouble as it is."

She didn't stay long after that.


	5. Glitter and Cocoa

**5\. Glitter and Cocoa**

_December, 2019 CE (Soho, London)_

The city glowed bright and cheery beneath a cold, dark night. Aziraphale made his way home with folded hands and downcast eyes. He particularly avoided looking at any Nativity displays.

Crowley would have figured it out soon enough, anyway. In three short decades, all of Judea, Galilee, and even Samaria would know about Jesus of Nazareth. Crowley even met him again, as a young man. The demon showed him all the kingdoms of the world.

Aziraphale would have liked to meet Jesus properly. Then again, so would all the other angels. And Aziraphale was keeping a low profile back in those days. He was still waiting for the other shoe to drop, vis a vis his meddling in a birth of celestial interest. And missing a very important choir performance.

He'd waited and waited- and then it was too late. That Passover week in Jerusalem was so very chaotic. Ultimately, Aziraphale only saw Jesus twice in his lifetime: once at the beginning, and once at the very end.

It was one of Aziraphale's many regrets.

Not a big discussion topic among angels: _regret._ Regret implies imperfection at best- sin at worst. Regret opens the door for feelings of guilt, or of yearning for forgiveness. All well and good for humans, of course, but angels? Ask an angel if their kind can be forgiven. Most will give you a cold-eyed smile and tell you the question is irrelevant. What would they ever need to be forgiven _for?_

But Aziraphale knew forgiveness. He knew the courage and vulnerability it took to extend forgiveness- knowing full well that the recipient might reject it. He knew the rush of relief when one was granted forgiveness. He knew how it felt to be understood. To be seen for one's intentions, and not just the results of one's actions.

And he was going home to the being who had shown him all these things, from the very beginning.

As he came up alongside the shop, he spotted Crowley through the windows. He was behind the till, idly fiddling with the Square reader. He'd taken off those silly antlers. He tucked a lock of hair behind his ear; it was almost chin-length now. He must not have had a haircut since before the end of the world. Did this mean he was growing it out on purpose? The thought heartened Aziraphale. So did the sight of Crowley wearing what appeared to be a normal Christmas jumper. It was forest green, with rows of blocky, knitted white snowflakes just below the shoulders and above the waist.

By the time Aziraphale reached the front door, Crowley was speaking with a customer. Or rather: the customer was speaking _at_ him. Crowley nodded and pressed down a smirk, leaning his knuckles into the counter, his annoyance tethered by dark amusement.

"It's not even a real holiday!" she huffed in a nasal, North American accent. "And neither is the winter solstice, or, or Saturnalia, or-"

"Well, the winter solstice is an astronomical event, ma'am." He pronounced 'ma'am' with the round-voweled deference of a butler in a period piece. Then he grinned, exposing far more teeth than necessary. "And Saturnalia was _loads_ of fun."

"Saturn ate his own kids!" she fumed. "Is _that_ the kind of thing you PC liberal lunatics celebrate?"

"Alright, look, if this is about that painting, Goya was going through some rough shit-"

"Don't you swear at me, young man! And don't try to distract me, talkin' about beans outta nowhere!"

Nida, a RADA student and regular customer, came up to Aziraphale at the door. "She's driven everyone out," she whispered, before ducking out herself.

Aziraphale checked his pocket watch. 5:05. Tonight suddenly felt like an excellent night to close at five o'clock. He caught Crowley's eye by wiggling the Open/Close sign hanging on the door. When Crowley leaned past the woman to get a better look, Aziraphale saw that his Christmas jumper wasn't so normal after all. Between the two rows of snowflakes, thick white lettering blared: I CAN GET YOU ON THE NAUGHTY LIST.

Oh good _Lord._

Aziraphale marched across the shop.

"We're saying 'Merry Christmas' again! Trump said so!" the woman railed. "I know he's not your President, but if you can't respect God, you can at least respect the-"

Just as it looked like Crowley might go full snakehead on this cretin, Aziraphale came up and put his hands around Crowley's waist, drawing the demon to him. In a seductive drawl that would make Madam Tracy proud, he cooed:

"Hel-_lo,_ dahling! How was your day, hm?" He batted his eyelashes. "Shall we close up, have the place to ourselves?"

Then he gave him a kiss. A full one. Open-mouthed. _Lingering. _When they finally pulled back, Crowley turned coolly towards the woman, while Aziraphale just gazed at his profile.

"You were saying?" Crowley asked.

The woman gave a strangled cry, then stomped out with all her might. On the way, she took care to knock their display of holiday cards to the floor. She slammed the door too, for good measure.

"HA!" Crowley barked. "Some thanks I get for wishing people a Happy Festivus! Though you've gotta wonder how she made it this far into Soho without spontaneously combusting. By the way, angel, that was bloody _brilliant._ You ought to give theater classes a go-"

Aziraphale cut him off with another kiss. Crowley startled, then placed his hands gently on the small of Aziraphale's back. The embrace melted the angel; he buried his face in Crowley's shoulder, breathing in his sharp trendy cologne.

"Ng. You're not… acting anymore, are you?"

"No." Aziraphale sighed. "Crowley, I'm sorry. I should have told you."

"S'alright. I figured you'd come back eventually. Though I'd kind of hoped you'd bring me some takeaway."

"What?"

"What?"

"What are you talking about?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley took his sunglasses off and placed them on the counter. "About an hour ago, when you walked out of here without saying anything. Why? What are _you_ talking about?"

Aziraphale stepped back, wringing his hands. "Bethlehem, 4 BCE. I… I should have told you what was really happening."

Crowley blinked. Then he did what the Them called a "facepalm." Between his slender fingers, Aziraphale could see the demon's dimples and crow's feet emerge. He breathed a gentle laugh.

"Oh, Jesus."

"Precisely," Aziraphale nodded. "Jesus."

"Six thousand years and you still surprise me sometimes," Crowley chuckled. "Come on, angel."

They drew the blinds and locked the door. Crowley unplugged the string lights, then killed the Spotify in the middle of the Kinks' "Father Christmas." Aziraphale closed out the till while Crowley cleaned up the holiday cards. Then they turned off the shop lights and went upstairs.

With a touch on the angel's elbow and a glance towards the kitchenette, Crowley indicated that he would take care of refreshments. Aziraphale went over to the record player, where he removed Tchaikovsky's _The Nutcracker Ballet_ and replaced it with an album of Debussy on piano. The latter was a bit calmer. More importantly, it was seasonally nonspecific.

Aziraphale grabbed the weighted blanket and settled on his half of the sofa. Crowley reappeared, a mug of cocoa in each hand. As usual, Aziraphale's cocoa had marshmallows and a stirring spoon, while Crowley's was shot through with espresso and topped with a tower of whipped cream. He placed the cocoas on the coffee table. Aziraphale held up a corner of the blanket in invitation, and Crowley slithered in beside him.

"You alright?" Crowley asked.

"Yes. It's just that Christmas- well, I'm afraid it's been a bit overwhelming for me, this year."

"Is it my music?" Crowley's voice pitched with anxiety. It brought to mind a certain night in a church in 1941. "'Cos I'll turn it off, if it's too much."

"No, no. I'll get used to it. Besides: even if I don't like the music itself, I like that it makes you happy."

Crowley made a noise halfway between his usual "ng" and a soft "aww." Aziraphale leaned against Crowley's shoulder. Then the demon gently took the lead, shifting them both until they were sprawled across the sofa. Aziraphale ended up on top, resting his head on Crowley's chest. He fiddled with a stray yarn on Crowley's jumper- then remembered its cheeky message. He giggled.

"Out of interest: Why do you celebrate Christmas this way? For that matter, why do you celebrate Christmas at all?"

"'Cos despite what our unhappy customer thinks, Christmas is the glitter of winter holidays. It just gets everywhere. I figure, 'if you can't beat 'em, join 'em,' eh? So I go all out, make it a big joke. Stops me thinking too much about the poor kid."

"Do you mean Jesus or his mother?"

"Ng. Both, I s'pose. Mostly Jesus, though."

"Hm." Aziraphale tut-tutted. "He really didn't deserve to die like that."

"No one deserves to die like _that._ It's one of those human inventions worse than anything hell could dream up. I mean, of all the ways humans have killed each other, crucifixion is just…" Aziraphale felt Crowley shudder. "It makes the guillotine look like… I dunno…"

"Like a spa day?"

"Yes! Exactly."

They snuggled in silence, watching steam rise off the cocoa. "Clair de lune" played on the turntable. Snowflakes danced in the air outside the window.

"You didn't have to tell me what was happening," Crowley said. "In Bethlehem, I mean. I had a pretty good idea, anyway. Israel was lousy with messiahs in those days. He wasn't even the first one your lot endorsed."

"But that only makes it worse," Aziraphale fretted. "Because if you already knew, then you only asked me because…"

He trailed off, heat creeping up his face. As much as they'd gotten better at communicating lately, some things were still too frightening to say aloud. _Because you wanted to hear it from me. Because you trusted me- or at least, you wanted a reason to. And I denied you that reason…_

Crowley toyed with Aziraphale's soft curls. Comfort disguised as idleness.

"We did alright, though, didn't we? I mean. Everyone lived."

"Yes. No small feat in those days," Aziraphale remarked.

"Stop me if I'm poking a sharp stick," said Crowley. "But did you ever get into trouble for it? Strongly-worded Christmas card from Gabriel, perhaps?"

They both snorted with laughter. "No," Aziraphale grinned.

"My lot gave me more attitude than usual for awhile, but they never came out and said anything," Crowley recalled. "I saved a messiah's life, and they pretended like it never happened."

"Really?"

"Yeah. But _you_ saved Mary's life," he continued, softly. "That was all you, angel. Not me. Certainly not heaven."

"Sometimes I wonder if heaven-" Aziraphale stopped himself, suddenly cautious. "If they wanted… a different outcome for her."

Crowley blew a defeated-sounded raspberry. "Wouldn't put it past 'em."

They fell quiet again. Aziraphale relished the coziness of it all: feeling safe, sheltered. Weighted blankets really were a top-hole idea. It was like wrapping oneself in one's wings, but without all that pesky preening.

And being here with Crowley… Knowing it didn't matter anymore what anyone else might think. That neither of them would suddenly pull away, clearing their throat, maintaining 'a reasonable doubt.' Knowing they could stay together for as long as they liked, doing whatever they wanted. Or doing nothing at all.

He snuggled against Crowley's jumper once more, then looked up at him. Crowley raised his eyebrows expectantly; he recognized the angel's "just-enough-of-a-bastard" grin.

"It would be funny if we both got it wrong," said Aziraphale. "If I did the bad thing and you did the good one."

Crowley laughed and kissed his forehead.

"Come on. Cocoa's getting cold."


End file.
